


Simple Joys

by fiones



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:31:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiones/pseuds/fiones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It may have been just a distant daydream brought on by an aging mind, but still he chose to believe it was true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple Joys

When he awoke to find his eyelids heavy and a dull pain in his chest, all he could remember was the sensation of choking on his own blood, the taste thick and metallic in his mouth. Around him it was silent but still he could hear the echoes of steel clashing on steel, battle cries of men and elves and orcs, the guttural groaning of death. It sounded distant, as if he was hearing it carried to him on the wind from far away, but he knew it was only in his head.  
  
He struggled for several minutes to open his eyes and when he did he found himself looking up at something red. His vision focused and the sight became clear and he realized he was looking up at the rich canopy of a bed. _Erebor_ , he thought dully. _I'm in Erebor._ The thought should have left him elated, but instead he only felt numb. Slowly, memories of the battle were coming back to him in more vivid detail and from his place on this bed there was no telling how much time had passed.  
  
Despite the pain he still felt in his stiff body, he turned his head as best he could to look around the room. The first thing he noticed was that it was terribly dusty from years and years of disuse. Everything looked gray instead of the rich blue it once had been when his grandfather had lived here. In the corner of the room he saw two figures leaning together in quiet discussion, facing away from him. He opened his mouth and tried to speak but all that came out of his mouth were strained sounds that didn't sound like words. Still, it got the two's attention and they turned quickly to face him. He recognized them at once as Balin and Óin. He noted that they were both bruised and Balin had a red scar just visible along his shoulder, but they were alive and they were whole, albeit tired and weary. When they saw that he was awake, they rushed to his side, eyes wide and fearful.  
  
“Thorin,” Balin whispered as he reached the bed, searching him over quickly. “Are you still with us?”  
  
Again, he struggled to speak. “Kee...”  
  
“Don't force yourself,” Óin said hurriedly as he brought a cup to Thorin's lips. “You're in a right state. It's a wonder you're still alive, Thorin. You need to rest.”  
  
Thorin shook his head slightly, turning away from Óin's drought. He locked eyes with Balin and forced the words out. “Ke... Kíli... Fíli...”  
  
Balin's shoulders dropped and his expression darkened. Next to him, Óin lowered his gaze to the ground. Thorin felt his blood run cold. “No.”  
  
“I'm sorry.” Balin's voice was quiet, Thorin barely able to hear it over the blood pounding in his ears. “I'm so sorry, Thorin. There wasn't anything we could do for them.”  
  
He shook his head, much more aggressively than he should have and vaguely he felt a wound in his chest start to tear, small amounts of blood spreading across his bandages. “No. They're not... they can't be dead.”

In Balin's eyes he saw the truth, there in the old Dwarf's deep sadness did Thorin feel himself drowning in the overwhelming depth of his loss.  
  
When Smaug took Erebor, Thorin did not cry. When his grandfather and mother and father died, he did not cry. When his brother was killed in battle, he did not cry. He was the king, and to be king was to be strong, even in the face of defeat, in the throes of grief.  
  
Perhaps that was why he cried now. A lifetime he had lived and lost so many and so much that he could not take anymore. Yet they were gone, they were dead, and he'd lead them into it. His sister's sons. He'd witnessed their births, held them when they were babes. Dead.  
  
Later he would be grateful that it was Balin and Óin who were there with him in that moment, though he never spoke of it and they pretended not to have seen.

~ ~ ~

  
As the days went on and Thorin began to regain his strength, the remaining members of his company trickled in one by one to see him. Each sported their own wounds of varying degrees, but thankfully none of them had been as injured as Thorin, and all of them yet lived.  
  
Dwalin had been the first to come and told him plainly that he was a luckiest bastard to ever walk Middle-Earth. “We thought you were dead for sure,” he told him, eying him cautiously as if he wasn't entirely convinced Thorin wouldn't still die right then and there. “Ya weren't barely breathing and ya were chockin' on yer own blood. Azog got ya good on the chest, very deep. Had to get some Elvish healer to come patch ya up. I know ya probably hate to hear that, but they did right and delivered ya back to us, so no complaining, hear me? Óin says he couldn't 'ave done it himself, so that's that.”  
  
Thorin, for his part, had slipped back into a drug induced sleep well before Dwalin got to the part about the Elves, which Balin thought was just as well, the stress couldn't possibly be good for his injuries after all.  
  
The others didn't spend much time with him, feeling that he needed to rest as much as possible, only popping in briefly to see for themselves that he was truly still alive. With them he got bits of news of what had happened during his time unconscious. He'd been asleep for nearly two weeks, and in that time caravans from the scattered Dwarf kingdom had already started to arrive at the Lonely Mountain. The Elvenking Thranduil had returned to his forest, and King Bard had set out to begin the reconstruction of Dale as soon as possible. In Thorin's absence, Balin had taken charge of Erebor and they, too, had begun reconstruction on the lost city and repairing the damage the dragon had wrought.

It was Ori who finally informed him that Bilbo was still in Erebor.  
  
“He came back during the battle, I don't know if you remember,” the young dwarf had stammered. “When you were hurt and they were carrying you off the field, he came to your side. You couldn't say much to him, seeing as you had blood in your mouth and all, but you tried to speak to him. He was in a horrible state when he thought you were going to die. He's been coming to stand outside your door every day but Óin told me he never comes in. If you want him to, you should tell Óin to bring him in, I don't think he'll come otherwise. He still thinks you hate him, I think.”  
  
The knowledge that the hobbit had remained in Erebor and was worried about his well-being was, in some ways, worse than the belief he'd had that Bilbo had left and returned to the Shire. _He should be far away from all this_ , he thought, _I don't deserve his forgiveness._  
  
That was assuming that Bilbo had forgiven him, which Thorin couldn't be sure he had. But if he was still here, if he had come back after the horrible things Thorin had said to him in the midst of his gold fever, then that meant the hobbit still cared about him and valued his life. And as much as Thorin felt he didn't deserve the hobbit's forgiveness, he still wanted it. Needed it.  
  
 _I can't lose him, too._  
  
When he finally saw Bilbo for the first time, sporting his own share of cuts and bruises and looking absolutely at the end of his tether, Thorin felt like pitching himself off the mountain.  
  
At his direction, Óin left the two alone. When the old dwarf left and closed the door behind him, silence descended as the dwarf king and the hobbit stared at each other. Bilbo was clinging desperately at the hem of his shirt (a dwarven garment, Thorin noted, it was far too big for the small hobbit) while Thorin shifted to sit himself up as best he could.

Thorin opened his mouth to speak but Bilbo but him too it, the words tumbling out in a hurry. “You look so much better, Thorin, I mean, you know, compared to before.” He stopped and swallowed a lump in his throat. “Before, you looked- I mean- I thought for sure you were going to die.”  
  
A moment passed. When Thorin replied, his voice was low and his words careful. “I'm not so easy to be rid of, as it were.”  
  
Bilbo nodded slowly. “I know. I know, I just thought-” He stopped, his voice caught in his throat and Thorin thought he saw tears welling at the corners of his eyes. “I was so afraid, after Kíli and Fíli...”  
  
A steady pounding began in his ears. He felt a hard lump rising in his throat and he fought to keep his voice even as he spoke but he couldn't find the words. None of the company that had come to see him had dared speak of his nephews. He still did not even know how it was that they fell. In the dark hours of the night, when he could not sleep for fear of what his dreams would show him, he prayed that their end had been swift. The only thing that brought him more pain than the sheer fact that they were dead was the thought that they had died slowly and had suffered much.  
  
When he found his voice, it was to ask, his voice quiet, “Did you see them? There, at the end.”  
  
He thought that Bilbo perhaps hadn't heard him for the hobbit remained still and silent. Then, his head bowed, Bilbo said, “Of course. I was... I was at Kíli's side when he... when he passed. Fíli had already died when I found them. He was protecting his brother. As always.” He was clutching the edge of his shirt so tightly his knuckles had gone bright white. “I don't know that Kíli realized who I was. He was asking for his brother, and... and for you. It didn't matter to him, how hurt he was, that he was dying, all he wanted to know was that his family was safe. And I-” Here the tears started to slide quietly down Bilbo's cheeks. “I couldn't lie to him, I couldn't reassure him. Fíli was dead, and I didn't know where you were, and there was nothing, nothing I could do to help save him. And I knew that, I knew he was going to die so I just told him, 'it's alright, you'll see your brother soon.' And do you know, he smiled at me when I said that? As if that was all he wanted to hear, no matter what it really meant? Then he died, and that was it. I was so... I was useless, I was utterly helpless and I'm so, so sorry, Thorin, I can't-”  
  
The hobbit stopped, cut off by Thorin raising his hand and slowly shaking his head. “Please,” he whispered, “please don't. Don't blame yourself. If anyone is at fault for this, it's me. I brought them on this quest, my foolishness that caused that nearly brought on war that cost their lives. You tried to stop it, but I was too blind, too greedy.” He ran a hand through his hair, feeling for a moment like he was going to be sick. “I cast you out and started all of this over a mere stone, but none of the riches this mountain holds will ever amount to that which has been lost.”  
  
“Thorin-”  
  
“Forgive me. Please.” Thorin once again met the hobbit's gaze and held it steadily. He felt as if his insides were burning. “I know I do not deserve your forgiveness. I have wronged you in the worst possible ways, but whatever I can do to make amends with you, I will do. I swear it.” He drew in a deep breath, his voice breaking. “I do not want to lose you.”  
  
No more words were passed between them as Bilbo hurried over to the king's side and reached over to pull him into an embrace. He was careful not hold on too tightly, for fear of opening Thorin's wounds back up, but Thorin still returned the hold and they stayed there, clinging to each other and offering silent comfort as they both let out all their pent up grief.  
  
A short while later, Óin returned to find Bilbo curled up at Thorin's side on the king's bed, both of them deep in sleep, tears still drying on their cheeks, but whether those tears were the hobbit's or the dwarf's or both, Óin could not tell.

~ ~ ~

  
A little over a month after the Battle of Five Armies, Thorin was officially crowned King Under the Mountain and the long road to recovery for Durin's Folk finally began.  
  
Being King was much as Thorin had always expected it would be; long work hours, a great deal of stress, and lots of having to associate with people he would much rather not have associated with (King Thranduil being at the top of that list).  
  
As it were, the only thing Thorin could not have foreseen in his future was the presence of a hobbit from the Shire.  
  
Bilbo had taken to life under the mountain with a great deal of enthusiasm. He worked closely with Balin to help try and organize the work load as they began to clear away the debris left by Smaug's rampage. He made a point to make his way to the kitchens to help Bombur prepare meals as often as he could. With Dori, he helped set up accommodations for all the dwarrows who had made their way to Erebor from across Middle-Earth and ensure that the people were well taken care of and everything in order.  
  
His work seemed to bring the hobbit a great deal of joy, for which Thorin was grateful. That Bilbo felt at ease with them (with him) in Erebor and had found not one but many places for himself amongst Thorin's people was more than the King could have hoped for. And Thorin's people quickly grew to love the hobbit and count him as one of their own, which made the whole situation even better. He deserved no less, being the only reason they had reclaimed Erebor at all, and Thorin made sure everyone residing under the mountain was aware of it.  
  
Despite their busy days, the Company always made a point to spend their evenings together as often as possible. The bond that had formed between them during their quest was utterly unbreakable and in the midst of all the change happening around them, they needed the calm and comfort of familiar faces and the shared memories of the experience. Occasionally, even Gandalf would appear in time to join them for a festive dinner before vanishing into the wilderness again on some business or other.  
  
Glóin's wife and son soon joined them, which brought the whole group extra joy. There weren't many dwarf children anymore, Thorin had told Bilbo one night, so those few that remain are treated with extra love and care. Glóin's son Gimli was, Bilbo thought, a good child. His father adored him like nothing else in the world, and Gimli was eager to please and seemed to want nothing more than to emulate his father in every way. Watching them interact always made Bilbo smile, though it didn't always reach his eyes.  
  
Thorin eventually received word from his sister that she would be remaining in the Blue Mountains with a small colony that she would lead. For his part, Thorin seemed unsurprised.  
  
“She wouldn't want to come to this place without her sons,” he'd told Bilbo solemnly. “I don't know that she will ever be able to look me in the eye again. Not that I can blame her. I do not know that I could face her.”  
  
Bilbo had no words for him that would make anything seem better, so he simply reached out and placed his hand comfortingly on Thorin's back.  
  
More and more the two seemed to gravitate towards each other. It was odd but at the same time it seemed utterly natural, and neither of them took the time to question it. They would sit together at dinner, reaching out to brush their hands together or bump their knees under the table when they thought no one was looking. When they walked together, they'd move so close that their shoulders would rub. If their gazes met from across a room, no matter how many other people were there, Thorin would offer Bilbo a slight smile, that to anyone else would look like nothing but to Bilbo it was as powerful as the sunrise.  
  
Nearly four years after Bilbo Baggins had run out of his home and his comfortable little life to go out on an adventure with a band of dwarves, he received his first kiss from Thorin Oakenshield,son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain.  
  
Of course Bilbo had to ruin the moment by informing Thorin that he intended to return to the Shire.  
  
“Not forever, of course,” he'd stammered hurriedly at the sight of Thorin's stricken face. “Not for very long at all, I should think, but you know, it is still my home. I love it here, really I do!” he added quickly, seeing Thorin open his mouth in protest. “And it is like home now, too. But you have to understand, Thorin, I spent my whole life there! All my childhood memories, of my mother and my father, they're all tied to that little hobbit hole. I still have a number of friends and family there and they probably all suspect I'm dead by now. Goodness knows Lobelia's probably broken in and nicked all my good silverware and who knows what else. And in the end, I am a hobbit. Not a dwarf. And while I suppose I have to admit I'm not your average hobbit, it is still what I am and I love it so. And I miss it. You can understand that, can't you, Thorin?”  
  
The King grumbled, folding his arms moodily, but he did understand, truly. After all, that same feeling had been what had driven him for so long to reclaim Erebor. Homesickeness. The need to belong somewhere.  
  
Bilbo would always have a place in Erebor, with Thorin, but part of him would always belong in the Shire.  
  
In the end he sent Bilbo on his way with two of his best soldiers (“You can't send a whole army of dwarves with me into the Shire, are you mad?!”) and the promise that he would return.  
  
“I will wait for you,” Thorin told him, his voice low. “I swear to you. No matter how long it takes for you to return to my side, I will take no other.”  
  
The pointy tips of Bilbo's ears turned red, but his lips turned up in an amused smirk. “As if you'd find someone else willing to deal with your moods.”

~ ~ ~

  
Five years later, Bilbo returned to find Thorin had kept his word.  
  
Things were mostly unchanged, for which Bilbo was grateful. Things at the Shire had been quite hectic when he arrived back home. His extended family, mainly his cousin Lobelia, had indeed broken into his house and had been locked in battle over who should inherit what of his belongings. He'd managed in the end to retrieve most of his stuff back, but he'd made sure when he did set out back for Erebor that he'd made it perfectly clear to everyone who would listen to him that he was not likely to die before them and that he would, in time, be back. And if everything was exactly how he left it when he returned, they would all be very sorry indeed.  
  
Erebor welcomed him back warmly and hosted a great feast in his honor. It was a grand affair, though Bilbo felt it really was more for the dwarves than it was for him. Still, he enjoyed it for catching up with the company who remained. Thorin's people were thriving, and it made Bilbo's heart swell with pride to know he'd played a part in all this.  
  
As expected, he and Thorin picked up where they left off.  
  
Thus began a comfortable cycle in Bilbo Baggins's life. He would spend several years in Erebor before returning, once again, to his homeland for years at a time.It was a long and difficult journey, so he made it rarely and stayed long enough to make the trips back and forth worth the botherr. If he stayed under the mountain for too long, his dreams would be filled with flowing green hills and the friendly faces of his kin. The longer he stayed in the shire, the more his dreams were filled with glistening caverns and the raucous laughter of many dwarves. So it was that he lived his life going back and forth, enjoying to the fullest extent the best of both his worlds. And if that was selfish of him, well, no one was going to tell him he didn't deserve to indulge in a little selfishness.  
  
Things carried on this way without much change for many years. Eventually, Bilbo returned to find that in his absence, Balin had left with Ori and Óin to reclaim the lost kingdom of Moria. It was a somber affair, as he had not been able to give them proper farewells, but with Erebor reclaimed and blooming, it made sense to Bilbo that the dwarves would want to attempt to take back another of their lost halls.  
  
And then, one hot summer evening some years later, Bilbo returned to the Kingdom of Erebor with a young hobbitling in tow.

~ ~ ~

  
“Most hobbits don't swim, you see.”  
  
“You swim.”  
  
Bilbo sighed. “Yes, well, I'm not most hobbits, now am I?”  
  
“No, you most certainly are not,” Thorin muttered as he cast a glance at the small hobbit sitting between Gimli and Dori. The two were taking turns trying to hold the young hobbit's attention with toys (Gimli) and reading (Dori), but Frodo didn't seem terribly interested in either at the moment. The young hobbit's eyes were roaming around the grand halls, taking in every detail with wonder but Thorin saw there a hint of fear. This was going to be a drastic change for the child, and he'd already suffered a great deal of change in his young life. Still, Thorin had to agree with Bilbo that it was best for the boy to be with him.  
  
“My relatives were well meaning but they just didn't seem to understand him, not in the least. The poor boy was miserable with them,” Bilbo told him, shaking his head. “He's always been a bit odd, if I'm honest. He takes after me in that respect, I suppose. But after his parents died, he's just been so shaken, and he wasn't getting better at Brandy Hall.” He paused for a moment, heaving another sigh. “They were absolutely livid when I was leaving with him. To come here, I mean. He'd been with me for a few months already and I could tell it would doing him a lot of good to be with me. But he needed to get out of the Shire, I thought. It still holds too many bad memories for him, and everyone there just doesn't know how to handle him. They pity him and don't hide it. He doesn't need that, he needs love.”  
  
“He will find that here,” Thorin said, firmly, watching as Bofur made his way over to Frodo and instantly caught the boy's attention with his weird hat and beaming smile. “I'll make sure of it. I promise you. Erebor will be his home as much as it is yours.”  
  
“Thank you.” Bilbo sounded breathless, relief washing over him in waves. He hadn't truly doubted that Thorin would turn Frodo away, but still. There's always that gnawing doubt of 'what if?' lurking in the back of the mind when something important and life-changing was on the table. “He's a good lad, really. I'm sure he'll love you.”  
  
'I certainly hope he does.”  
  
“It would be a pity if he hated you, but on second thought, you are quite scary. Your nose in particular is quite fearsome. I imagine it'll give him nightmares.”  
  
“You're terribly funny.”  
  
“It's hardly my fault your nose is sharper than Orcrist.”  
  
“Uncle?”  
  
The two looked up to find Frodo standing before them, shuffling nervously from foot to foot, his eyes cast downwards. “Yes, my boy? What's wrong?”  
  
Frodo seemed to be struggling with himself, deciding whether or not he really wanted to speak in front of Thorin. Finally he deemed his need to great to hold off. “I'm hungry.”  
  
Bilbo laughed. “Of course you are! You hardly touched a thing at dinner!”  
  
The boy looked sheepish, still not raising his eyes. “Sorry. Wasn't feeling well.”  
  
“Frodo,” Bilbo spoke gently. “You know it's not good manners to not look at someone when you're speaking to them. Come on now, you know me. You know I'd never have brought you into this place if I thought for a moment you weren't safe. And I know Thorin looks frightful but he's really quite gentle, I promise.”  
  
He pointedly ignored Thorin's glare.  
  
Slowly Frodo raised his eyes to meet Bilbo's smile, giving a small nod of understanding. “I know, uncle.”  
  
“Right, that's a good boy.” Bilbo's tone was reassuring, as was his smile, as he stood and took the boy's tiny hand in his. “Let's go see if we can find you something to nibble on, shall we?” He cast a glance over his shoulder at Thorin, who nodded in understanding. Bilbo gave him a grateful smile before turning back to his nephew, and the two walked away.  
  
Thorin watched them go, a dull ache in his chest.

~ ~ ~

  
That night as Thorin slept, he dreamt of blue eyes which shone more brilliantly than any of the gems in Erebor that looked at him with the silent need to be loved.

~ ~ ~

  
Frodo warmed up to life in Erebor gradually. The remaining members of Thorin's company flocked around him and did everything their power to make the boy feel welcome. Dori and Nori would take him down to the grand library and educate him on the history of their people. Bifur and Bofur took it upon themselves to make sure the boy always had the best toys the dwarves could offer, and Gimli would be the one to play with him. Bombur learned all Frodo's favorite foods and made a point to always have something at every meal that the hobbit would love. Frodo was too small to learn the art of war, and anyway he did not seem to have much interest in it (he was still, after all, a hobbit), but Dwalin still enjoyed showing Frodo around the armories and recounting tales of great battles he'd been part of.  
  
For his part, Thorin was unable to spend as much time with Frodo and Bilbo during the day as he would have liked. His responsibilities as king took precedence over everything else, and as much as he wished he could push some of them off onto his cousin Dáin. He would be king himself one day, with his son to follow, it wouldn't be that unusual for Thorin to share more duties with him, but Thorin preferred to be as involved in his kingdom's affairs as possible. Bilbo understood and agreed that he should always put his kingdom and his people first. As such, Thorin put aside time every evening to spend with the two hobbits.  
  
It took some time for Frodo to really take to Thorin. At first it seemed to Thorin that the young hobbit only tolerated him because it was obvious how much Thorin meant to Bilbo and that Thorin loved Bilbo. Frodo couldn't hate anyone who cared so deeply for his uncle, but Thorin was still... well, he was Thorin. It had been a very long time indeed since he'd had to deal with small children, and they had been dwarf children. Hobbit children were a different matter. Where his nephews had always looked that Thorin with respect and a certain degree of awe, Frodo was generally unimpressed by the whole thing. Not that he was ever disrespectful, Bilbo would never tolerate bad manners. But once the spectacle of something so different from the Shire wore off, Frodo looked at the dwarves of Erebor much as he looked at his relatives in Hobbiton; that is to say, if they weren't kind to Frodo and his uncle, he didn't like them. And from Frodo's perspective, Thorin was lacking in that respect.  
  
“I'm not saying he's mean!” the boy insisted to his uncle when he brought the issue up with him. “It's just, you know... he never seems happy!” He shuffled from foot to foot, a deep pout forming on his lips. “I think maybe he doesn't like me. He'd rather just be with you, I think...”  
  
“Perish the thought, my boy!” Bilbo said, crouching down so he was eye-level with his nephew. “Thorin cares for you very much, he's just not always the best at showing it, I'm afraid. He's closed off in some ways. That's just how he is. He's lived a long, hard life, and it's taken its toll on him.”  
  
Frodo glanced up at him, his pout turning into a small frown. His next words were a whisper: “My life has been hard, too.”  
  
With a sigh, Bilbo gathered the boy up in his arms and held him close. “I know, Frodo. I know. But you're a hobbit. And a Baggins at that! We endure, and we find comfort in the simple joys of life. Dwarves, well, they're a hard people. They take their pain and internalize it. I think it's a matter of pride or something like that.”  
  
Frodo shook his head slowly. “That's not... that's not good. So Thorin isn't happy?”  
  
“He is, he is! He just doesn't show it the way we do, that's all I meant.”  
  
“I wish he would,” Frodo mumbled, burying his head in Bilbo's shirt. “He barely even smiles. It's sad.” He tilted his head to the side, thoughtful. “We should do something to make him smile.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“I dunno. I'll have to think about it.”  
  
Bilbo smiled and nodded.  
  
Two weeks later, Thorin was greeted one evening by a very anxious young hobbit, approaching him with something hidden behind his back. “Um, Mister Thorin? I made something for you.” He shifted uncomfortably, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “It's not much but I thought you might like it.”  
  
Thorin ushered the boy closer, placing his hand on his shoulder. The King's hand was almost the size of Frodo's head. “I'm sure I will love whatever it is you've made me, but you know you did not have to do anything for me.”  
  
Frodo nodded vigorously, his dark curls bouncing around his head. “I know! But I wanted to. You know, to thank you for letting me and Uncle Bilbo stay here.”  
  
“It's my pleasure to have you both here,” Thorin said with a small smile, which made Frodo break out into a wide grin.  
  
Newly encouraged, Frodo pulled the hidden item out from behind his back. It was a book. The pages were hand-sewn together with a simple leather cover. Thorin took it from the boy and gently began leafing through the pages.  
  
It quickly became clear to Thorin that the book was in fact an anthology of sorts comprised of pages from a variety of sources. Some pages were still bright and clear, while others were yellowed and faded with age. Several pages had small, hand-written notes in the corners in two different colors, some in red and some in a deep blue. He recognized the red ink as Bilbo's script, while the blue seemed immature and jerky. Most likely Frodo's.  
  
“It's a collection of my favorite stories,” Frodo told him, watching him intently to judge his reaction. “From home, about the Shire. I know our history probably isn't as interesting as yours but I thought you would enjoy it anyway. Some of Uncle Bilbo's relatives are mentioned. Mine too, I suppose.” He leaned forward, his bright eyes wide in anticipation. “Do you like it?”  
  
Thorin closed the book gingerly and reached out with one arm to pull the young hobbit into a tight hug. Frodo squeaked in surprise before relaxing, reaching up to grip the dwarf King tightly. “Of course I do,” Thorin whispered. “Thank you very much, little one. I shall cherish it always.”  
  
Frodo pulled back to look Thorin in the eyes, grinning. Thorin thought the boy's eyes looked suspiciously bright and wet but he chose not to mention it. Then Frodo's smile lessened and he leaned close to the King, looking serious. “Uncle Bilbo told me you've had a very hard life, Mister Thorin,” he said, quietly. “If you ever want to talk to someone about it, you can talk to me. I'm a good listener! I can help you feel better.”  
  
Thorin must have looked shocked because Frodo smiled at him reassuringly before leaning back in for another hug. Thorin wrapped his arms tightly around the small body and pulled him close. “Thank you, Frodo.”  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Thorin saw Bilbo watching them. His eyes gleamed with joy at the sight.  
  
Things between the King Under the Mountain and the young hobbit were much better after that. Thorin was still stoic but he was much less stand-offish and smiled much more around the boy. Frodo, for his part, became very attached to Thorin and was always trying to cheer the King up and make him happy. Bilbo was thrilled by their progress.  
  
By the end of Frodo's first year in Erebor, he'd taken to calling Thorin 'Uncle'. The first time Thorin heard it, he was so overwhelmed with emotion he was left speechless. All he could do was gather Frodo up and hold him tight.  
  
Thorin had never dared to hope for a family of his own. He never intended to marry and did not expect he would sire any children. His only family had been his sister and her sons, who were lost to him now. But here, with Bilbo and Frodo, he'd found something wonderful, something he would hold on to until his dying day.  
  
But Thorin Oakenshield's life was full of unexpected twists and turns. Nothing ever stayed the same for long, nothing good ever lasted for long.

~ ~ ~

  
The rumbling was felt throughout the whole of the mountain. Within minutes, word had spread and Thorin learned that a tunnel in the western mine had collapsed. Bilbo, Nori, and Dori had apparently already run off to help clear away the debris and pull any injured workers out. On hearing this, Thorin hurried with Dwalin at his side to meet them there, along with several soldiers and other miners to lend their aid.  
  
As they approached, Thorin could see Dori crouching by the injured who had been pulled from the mine, while Nori carried another dwarf out from the rubble. Bilbo was no where in sight.  
  
Thorin opened his mouth to call to them but before a sound could escape his lips, the entire tunnel shook. Dwalin instinctively reached out to grab hold of him and pull him close, shielding him. Nori hastened out of the mine and with Dori they threw themselves down on top of the injured to protect them. They were just in time. Second s later, dust and dirt and large rocks tumbled out of the mine in heavy waves as further down, more of the tunnel collapsed. Distantly, Thorin thought he could hear voices screaming from inside before they were drowned out by the crashes then silenced.  
  
When the dust settled and everyone tentatively started to raise their heads, Thorin pushed Dwalin's hands off him and ran.  
  
Nori and Dori called out to him as he passed them, but he could not register what they said. All he knew was that Bilbo was in that tunnel, he knew it. When he reached the piles of rock that had once been a path into the deep mountain, he began grabbing and pulling them aside while screaming Bilbo's name.  
  
At some point Dwalin joined him, along with Nori, the two of them doing their best to help him while also trying to make sure he didn't bring the rest of the tunnel down on their heads. It was long and tedious work, and by the end of it Thorin's nails had been ripped off, his hands cut and bloodied.  
  
They were working through the night and well into the following morning. Their efforts unearthed several bodies of dwarven miners and one hobbit.  
  
Bilbo's limbs had been so crushed and twisted that he was barely recognizable.  
  
Thorin could not remember much of what happened after that. Someone had led him away from the scene, his entire mind and body numb, and patched up his hands. After that he had been led back to his room. There, he was left alone. He sank onto his bed and silently wept.

~ ~ ~

  
There was a funeral of sorts for the victims of the collapse. Physically Thorin was there, but when asked about it afterward he couldn't recall ever leaving his room. Dwalin, Bofur, and the others took turns standing outside his door and listening to make sure he was alright Dimly, Thorin was aware they seemed to fear he would die himself. Part of him wished he would.  
  
The world around him had gone gray, as if Bilbo had taken all joy with him and left nothing but melancholy.  
  
Dáin assumed control o Erebor, for Thorin could not be roused from his bed for anything. He barely ate and hardly acknowledged anyone who came into his room to speak to him. Once, he slipped out of his room and made his way to the one where Bilbo had slept when he wasn't with Thorin. It held in it everything Bilbo had brought with from the Shire. Stepping into the small room was like stepping into a part of Bag End, so thoroughly had Bilbo made it his. As he moved through it, Thorin saw familiar sights. Bilbo's books, some of his mother's silverware (“If I leave it, Lobelia will steal it, and I can't have that now, can I?”), Sting, his mithril. On the walls, Bilbo had put up portraits of his mother and father. More recently, he'd added two more portraits of his cousins Primula and Drogo. On the mantlepiece was an envelope that Thorin knew contained Bilbo's old ring. He had put it aside some time ago to serve as an heirloom that would one day go to Frodo. He never liked having it out in Erebor, for fear, it seemed, that something about it would send Thorin back into the throes of gold fever.  
  
He didn't stay long. The room still held Bilbo's scent, and if Thorin closed his eyes he thought he could hear the hobbit's voice echoing out of the walls. It left him cold and empty and desperately needing to sleep.

~ ~ ~

  
In his life, Thorin had never come close to drowning. Now he knew that he should be, he was deep, deep under water floating aimlessly downward, but as he stared up at the light flickering far above him, he did not feel the weight of the water pushing him down. When he opened his mouth, his lungs did not flood. _This must be a dream_ , he though, _or perhaps I am already dead. You cannot drown a dead man.  
  
_ There was a loud splash and Thorin saw a figure silhouetted above him, sinking down into the deep with him. Thorin struggled to make out who it was but all he could see of the figure were the curls of his hair fanning out around him like a crown. Something reflected the light from above. Buttons? Yes, those were buttons on a waistcoat, Thorin knew that coat, that shade of red.  
  
And then there was red everywhere, flowing from the figure like ribbons snaking out to cover the sun. Thorin tried to call his name but could make no sound.  
  
Somewhere far away, he thought he could hear a small, frightened voice screaming.

~ ~ ~

  
When Thorin woke, he was drenched in sweat. He got up, his entire body shaking, and made for the door. Bofur was standing guard on the other side and started with surprise when Thorin emerged. “Where you heading off to?!” he asked, but Thorin waved him off.  
  
“Frodo,” was all the King said.  
  
The young hobbit was not in his room. That should have sent Thorin into a panic, but somehow he knew where the boy was.  
  
His instincts proved correct and Thorin found Frodo at the western tunnel. There was dust in the boy's hair and his hands were bruised from trying to move rocks. He did not notice Thorin's approach until the King was right behind him.  
  
“Frodo?”  
  
At Thorin's voice, Frodo looked up at him. His face was just as dirty as the rest of him, save for the tear streaks down his cheeks. Thorin felt his heart shatter in his chest. How had he been so blind? So wrapped up in his own pain that he hadn't even cast a thought for this poor child who had already lost so much and was now, again, without his family. Except for Thorin, who was supposed to be his family, too. How had he forgotten that? Bilbo would have skinned him alive if he knew.  
  
“Frodo, what are you doing?”  
  
Frodo sniffled before turning back to his work. “I'm lookin' for Uncle Bilbo,” he said, his voice quiet and strained.  
  
Thorin blinked. “What?”  
  
“Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo repeated. “I'm looking for him. Bofur told me that he was gone, he wasn't coming back, but... but I know that can't be true.” His voice got so quiet that Thorin had to lean close to make out his words. “Uncle promised me after my mom and da died that he'd never leave me. So if he's not come back to me, that means someone or something is stopping him. Well, I won't stand for that! I'm going to dig him and rescue him myself.”  
  
Wordlessly, Thorin placed his hands on top of Frodo's to stop him. Frodo looked up at him slowly, tears dripping down his face once more. Thorin wanted to speak but the lump in his throat hurt too much, all he could do was slowly shake his head. Frodo let out a whimper and fell into Thorin's arms, clutching at the King's shirt and sobbing openly. Thorin rested his chin on top of Frodo's curly head, and held him dear.  
  
They stayed there together for a long time. When they broke apart, the world changed again.

~ ~ ~

  
Thorin returned to his duties as King. Under his watchful eye and loving guidance, Frodo grew, and life went on.  
  
On Frodo's 28th birthday, he came to the King and told him of his intent to return to the Shire.  
  
“I haven't been there since I was a child,” he explained. “I know Bilbo always wanted to take me back, but he never had the chance. Now that I'm older, I think I should go. By rights, Bag End is mine after all. And I am a hobbit, in the end. I need to be among my own kin, at least for a time.”  
  
By then, Thorin's hair had gone grey, the wrinkles on his face deepened. Frodo had grown into a handsome young man, his eyes bright and hopeful, his curls framing his gentle face. He did not have a beard, but Thorin had long resigned himself to not hold it against the hobbit.  
  
“If you feel that this is something you have to do, I have no place to stop you.” He leaned back, looking the boy over. “Just promise you will return once more. There will always be a place for you here, as I'm sure you know.”  
  
Frodo's smiles were as bright as ever. “I know, Uncle. Thank you. I will come back, of course I will. Erebor is as much my home as Bag End.”  
  
Within a month, Frodo was prepared to leave.  
  
Before his departure, Thorin pulled the boy aside and handed him a small envelope. “Bilbo left this to you,” he said. “I wanted to give it to you when you were older. I could not give it to you then. It's his ring that he found on the quest, in Gollum's cave. It holds a strange magic that I have never entirely understood. It served Bilbo well and allowed him to save us on many occasions. I only hope that it will that it will serve you just as well.”  
  
Frodo accepted the gift with a look of awe. He had grown up hearing stories of Bilbo's ring and how it had allowed his uncle to sneak into Smaug's chambers and converse with the dragon. He'd never imagined that such a rare treasure would come into his possession. He tucked it away with great care and thanked Thorin for keeping it safe.  
  
Then they parted ways and Frodo returned at last to his homeland.

~ ~ ~

  
Lord Elrond of Rivendell had called a council of great importance and Thorin, despite his reservations against the Elven lord, agreed to attend.  
  
Rumors abounded over what prompted Elrond to call for this council, some of them more ridiculous than others, some of them quite concerning, and a few downright frightening.  
  
Nothing in Thorin's wildest dreams could have prepared him for what he found in Rivendell.  
  
From what Gandalf told him, Frodo had only awoken the day before Thorin arrived. He'd been unconscious for a few days as he struggled to recover from his wound. “He was stabbed on Weathertop by a Nazgûl,” Gandalf had told him, his voice grave and weary. He sounded older than Thorin had ever heard him. “The Nine perused him all the way from the Shire, and still he endured.”  
  
“And why, exactly, were Sauron's servants following him?” Thorin asked, trying to keep his tone even. Gandalf simply stared at him, his eyes dark. Thorin felt as if the ground had given way beneath him. “So it's true,” he said, breathless. “How...? How can this be?”  
  
“Bilbo's ring.”  
  
Thorin shook his head. “No. _No_. There has to be some mistake. The Ring was in Erebor all this time, it never- it _cannot be_ , Gandalf.”  
  
“And yet it is, Thorin. In the gloom of Gollum's cave, all those years ago, Bilbo found it. The One Ring.”  
  
“Did you know?!” He was standing now, glaring at the wizard with such intensity. He shook as his voice rose. “Did you know, all this time?! What kind of evil lay hidden in my mountain?”  
  
“Of course not. Use your brain for a moment, Thorin Oakenshield. Do you really believe that if I had known I would have allowed the Ring to remain in Erebor? That I would have allowed Bilbo to keep, allowed it to come to Frodo?”  
  
“I gave it to Frodo,” Thorin said, his shoulders slumping, his anger slipping away as quickly as it had come. “I sent it with him to the Shire. If I had kept it, perhaps-”  
  
Gandalf interrupted him. “If you had kept it, all of Sauron's armies would have gathered on your doorstep.” The wizard stood and moved to place a hand on Thorin's shoulder. “This is not your fault, Thorin. We could not have known. None of us, not dwarf or elf or wizard, could have ever imagined that the weapon of the enemy had fallen into the hands of a hobbit. It is beyond reason. But it is done, and now we will deal with it as best we can. And Frodo need not worry on it anymore. He's brought the Ring this far, we can ask no more of him.”  
  
“Nor should we,” the King muttered. “It should never have been his to worry on in the first place.”  
  
The wizard sighed heavily. “In that, my old friend, we are very much agreed.”

~ ~ ~

  
“I will take it.”  
  
There were moments in Thorin's life that were not defined by sights or sounds, but by words. Words had brought him the death of his nephews. Words had made him king. Words had brought him Bilbo's love. Words had brought him Frodo.  
  
And now words were taking Frodo away.  
  
“I WILL TAKE IT.”  
  
Thorin made to move towards Frodo, to push him behind him and stand protectively in front of him, to hold the boy's arms tightly and never let him leave his sight again. _Not again, not again, I cannot lose someone else_.  
  
He'd barely made it a step forward when Frodo looked his way and left him frozen. In the hobbit's eyes burned a determination that Thorin had never seen in him before, and for a moment it seemed to Thorin that he was looking at Bilbo reborn. He could not move, could not speak, not even when Frodo turned from him to address the now silent council.  
  
“I will take the Ring to Mordor.”  
  
The rest of the council seemed to pass in a hush. Gandalf was going to go with Frodo, along with three other hobbits. Gimli would also be accompanying him (his father was too old, they were all of them too old). Two men would also be going, and Thranduil's son. Thorin was too numb in that moment to protest.  
  
“Nine companions,” Elrond had declared. “So be it. You will be the Fellowship of the Ring.”  
  
In the back of his mind, Thorin knew he should be grateful Frodo would not be alone in his journey, but in that moment all he could feel was fear. Still, he could not find the will to speak up.  
  
 _I'm so sorry, Bilbo. I've failed.  
_

~ ~ ~

  
“I thought that I would come visit you in the Shire, for a short time. I was bringing these there for you.”  
  
On Frodo's bed was laid the mithril Thorin had once gifted to Bilbo what seemed like a lifetime ago. Next to it lay Bilbo's sword, Sting. Frodo picked it up and unsheathed it, eyes tracing over the intricate Elvish markings. “This is like your sword, isn't it? That glows when orcs are near.”  
  
“Indeed. And it's in those moment, Frodo, when you have to be extra careful.”  
  
Frodo turned to him with a small smile that did not reach his eyes. “Thank you, Uncle.”  
  
Thorin felt a knot tighten in his stomach and before he could stop himself, the words were tumbling out of his mouth. “You do not have to do this, Frodo. You can still hand the Ring of to someone else, let them deal with it. You can return home, to the Shire, to Erebor, it does not matter. Wherever you feel happiest, feel safe.”  
  
A moment of silence passed as the King Under the Mountain stared pleadingly at the hobbit who in his eyes was still young, too young to ever have to go through this ordeal. But Frodo just shook his head. “I know I do not have to do this, Uncle. But nevertheless, I've chosen to do it and I will see it done. Do you not have faith in me?”  
  
“I will always have faith in you!”  
  
“Then that is enough.” Frodo moved to pull Thorin into a gentle hug. “I spent all my childhood wishing I was off having grand adventures like Bilbo once had. My own adventure has been quite different.”  
  
“Have I done right by you?” Thorin gasped out as he pulled Frodo close.  
  
“Of course. You've done enough.”  
  
Thorin couldn't quite bring himself to believe him.

~ ~ ~

  
“We never should have taken Bilbo from the Shire,” Thorin said, his voice thick with emotion. “He should have lived a long, happy life under the hills with Frodo, never having to worry about the dark and evil matters of the world.”  
  
“Do you truly think so?” Gandalf asked. “You know that had Bilbo remained in the Shire, it's likely you never would have reclaimed Erebor. Would you give up your kingdom, your people, for the life of two hobbits?”  
  
“Was it worth their lives?” The King looked desperate, lost. “It was not their kingdom, it was not their people. We dragged Bilbo into it and now still, after all these years, the consequences still effect his nephew. I got my kingdom, what did Bilbo get? What did Frodo get? This. Was it worth it?”  
  
Gandalf stared down at the broken King with sympathy before looking out towards the setting moon. “I do not know, my friend,” he whispered. “I supposed that it up for you to decide.”  
  
As the sun rose that day, Frodo and the Felllowship set out for Mordor.

~ ~ ~

  
Thorin returned to Erebor where he knew nothing of Frodo's progress or his fate. Every day seemed longer than the last, and his grey hair went white. Moror's forces were consentrated on the world of men, and for a long time it seemed to Thorin that they might escape the brunt of his wrath.  
  
Of course that was wishful thinking, and on a day many months after Frodo left Rivendell with the Ring of Power, a messenger came to Thorin Oakenshield with news that Sauron's forces were marching on Dale and Mirkwood.  
  
“They need our aid.”  
  
For a moment Thorin considered taking the whole of his army to Dale and leaving Thranduil to fend for himself, as the Elvenking had once left Durin's Folk at the mercy of a dragon. Then his mind carried him back to the council and he saw a young Elvish princeling standing at Gimli's side ready to defend Frodo with his life, and Thorin knew.  
  
“Dáin will take a portion of our army and aid the men of Dale.”  
  
At his side, Dwalin narrowed his eyes. “And us?”  
  
Thorin's expression was hard, set. “We ride for Mirkwood.”

~ ~ ~

  
The combined forces of elves and dwarves was more than enough to send Sauron's spawns scurrying back to hide behind the Black Gate.  
  
In the aftermath of the battle, Thorin and his men were allowed to remain in the woods as long as they need to recover. Despite Dwalin's very vocal misgivings, Thorin accepted the offer. It was strange to be in Mirkwood and able to move about freely. While Thorin was not one to favor forests in anyway, he quickly understood why the Elvenking had always seemed so strained and anxious for the survival of his people here. The very air seemed oppressive. The trees had grown tall and twisted, blocking all sunlight from reaching the forest floor. It was dark and dank and Thorin felt a strange sense of sadness there.  
  
Gandalf had once told him that Thranduil was the only Elven lord that was left to defend his kingdom without the aid of a Ring of Power. Elrond in Imladris and Galadriel in Lórien guarded their realms with the Rings once gifted by the Dark One himself, but Thranduil had nothing but his own strength and will to hold the forces of evil at bay. In that moment, Thorin was grateful he would never live so long as the Elvenking.  
  
He found Thranduil himself in a small garden that stood out from the rest of the woods. It was obviously far more well kept and constantly tended with great love and care. It was not hard to see who had cared for it, as Thranduil knelt by a patch of brilliant cyan blossoms and sang to them.  
  
Thorin stood silently listening to the Elvenking's calming voice. It was strange, all of it, but he felt oddly at peace here like this. Part of him hated that, but with all the great evil at work in the world it was hard for Thorin to work up much disdain for Thranduil anymore. It just did not seem so important now.  
  
“When I sent my son to Elron's council,” Thranduil said, breaking Thorin away from this thoughts, “I did not expect that he would leave on a quest to destroy the One Ring.” He turned to look at Thorin and the dwarf king was taken aback at how ancient and exhausted the elvish king looked. “I expect you did not anticipate that your young hobbit would be the one to bear such a burden.”  
  
“I certainly did not wish for such a thing.”  
  
“No one ever wishes for their loved ones to carry such a fate.” Thranduil turned back to the blossom, running a hand over their soft petals. “In my life, I have lost a mother and a father. I once had a wife, now she is gone. I once had four children, now I have none.”  
  
“You have so little faith in your son?” Thorin was shocked. “Surely you must believe in his abilities. You must believe that he will return to you.”  
  
The look in Thranduil's eyes made Thorin's blood run cold in his veins. “I absolutely believe my son is alive. But you know as well as I do, Thorin Oakenshield, that the children that left us will not be the same ones that return.”

~ ~ ~

  
The moment the Ring was destroyed was felt all across Middle-Earth. It was as if the very land itself had taken in a deep, calming breath that revitalized the world.  
  
Word reached Thorin that Dáin had fallen before the gates of Erebor, defending the body of the King of Dale. Years ago the news would have cut the King deep, but now it was just another name on a long list of those he'd lost.  
  
The King Under the Mountain set out with the Elvenking and together they rode for Gondor.  
  
“Your son has saved us all,” Thranduil had said to him when it was all over.  
  
“Of course he did,” was all Thorin could manage.  
  
When they arrived in Gondor, Gandalf was waiting for them. Frodo was still unconscious but Gandalf had hope that he was awaken within the next day. The wizard had more sobering news for Thorin as he relayed to him what they'd discovered during their journey through Moria. In his heart, Thorin had known for some time that it had gone ill with Balin, but to know it for sure made it no less difficult to bear. Dwalin, Dori, Nori, and Glóin all suffered with him, Dori and Nori most of all. The thought of their brave little Ori struck down and left to rot in the cold halls of Moria shook them to their very core.  
  
After what seemed to Thorin like a lifetime, Frodo awoke and he was allowed in to see him.  
  
From the moment the old King laid eyes on the hobbit, he knew that Thranduil's words had rung true.  
  
Frodo's eyes were dull and icy. Around his neck was a deep burn from where the Ring had weighed him down on the long road to Mordor. Worst of all, the ring finger on his left hand was gone. At the sound of Thorin's approach, Frodo had raised his head to look at him and he offered him a smile, but it was bleak, no longer holding a trace of joy or hope or love.  
  
Thorin would have wept, but he'd long run out of tears to shed.

~ ~ ~

  
When he was well again, Frodo returned to the Shire. Thorin and his company made their final trip back to Erebor.  
  
A few years passed before Frodo unexpectedly arrived at the Lonely Mountain.  
  
“I did promise I'd return,” he told the King, taking in his aged appearance. “I'd heard that Dwalin passed on. Is it true?”  
  
“I'm afraid so,” Thorin sighed, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice. “Died in his sleep. He was old, you know. And I'm old, too.”  
  
“Better to live to be old than to die young,” Frodo muttered, not sounding convinced of his own words. Silence descended on them for a short time, then Frodo spoke up again. “Sam got married. Rosie Cotton is her name. He's always been mad for her for as long as I can remember. It was a grand occasion, by Shire standards at any rate. I never thought I'd live to see such a sight again. Now he's got a beautiful little girl, and another child on the way. It's wonderful.”  
  
“You don't sound all that thrilled with it.”  
  
Frodo's mouth twitched and his hand moved instinctively towards his shoulder where Thorin knew his wound from Weathertop still burned. His next words were in a soft hush. “I think I lost myself, Uncle, somewhere on the road to Mordor. I've tried so hard to find myself again, under hills and over mountains and in the tallest white towers, but I'm gone. The truth is I burned away in the fire of Mount Doom, and what little is left of me cannot seem to find peace in this world.”  
  
Thorin felt his body go limp. Frodo was watching him, coolly. He could not find his voice.  
  
“Gandalf and I have been given special permission to sail with the Elves into the Undying Lands.”  
  
“And you are going to go?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Frodo jumped in surprise when Thorin leaned forward and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. “If that is what it would take to help you heal, than that is what I would want you to do.”  
  
“You aren't upset with me?”  
  
“Upset with you?” Thorin laughed. “I've never been upset with you. Only myself, that I was not able to spare you this pain. Forgive me.”  
  
The hobbit's small hand covered his large, wrinkled one. “There's nothing to forgive, Uncle. In the end it all worked out for the best. The Ring is gone, the world is at last at peace. If the price for that peace is my life, than so be it. It is the path I chose.”  
  
He gave Thorin's hand a tight squeeze. “I promise you, Uncle, you've made my life a happy one.”

~ ~ ~

  
He remained at the gate of Erebor watching the horizon long after Frodo's tiny figure had disappeared into the distance.  
  
 _I am never going to see him again.  
  
_ His cast his mind back to a time long, long ago, when he'd stood here waiting for Bilbo to come back to him again with a smile on his face and stories to tell.  
  
 _Have I done right by you, Bilbo?_  
  
“Of course you did,” Bilbo's voice drifted to on the wind. “You love him. That's all I ever asked of you.”  
  
It may have been just a distant daydream brought on by an aging mind, but still he chose to believe it was true.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not really sure how I feel about how this turned out, but it got me back into writing so that's something good, I guess. This is the first fic I've written in over two years so try not to judge me too harshly. :')


End file.
